Watching his dark, blank face as he strewed fresh herbs on her pavement, she wondered:
"Does he know the truth?"
Their glances met; he seemed to send her a veiled look of comprehension and promise. But whenever he appeared the crone was there.
One morning however, Foresto had time to whisper:
"The Arabian."
What did that mean? Was the Arab magician, recluse in his wretched hut below the castle, prepared to serve her? Was it through him and Foresto that she might hope to escape or at least to manage some revenge? Thereafter she often watched the renegade's window, from which, no matter how late the hour, shone a glimmering of lamplight. Was he busy at his magic? Could those spells be enlisted on her side?
Then, under an ashen sky of autumn, as night was creeping in, she saw the Arabian ascending the hill to the castle. His tall figure, as fleshless as a mummy's, was swathed in a white robe like a winding sheet; his beaked face and hollow eye-sockets were like a vision of Death. Without taking her eyes from him, Madonna Gemma crossed herself.
Baldo came to the gate. The ghostly Arabian uttered:
"Peace be with you. I have here, under my robe, a packet for your master."
"Good! Pass it over to me, unless it will turn my nose into a carrot, or add a tail to my spine."